


Nocturne 11

by wildeflower



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Dark Academia, M/M, i'll update these as I go !!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:55:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28237302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildeflower/pseuds/wildeflower
Summary: Liam attends an elitist university and attempts to wash away the poverty of his past with diligence and perseverance, while slowly getting introduced to a notorious group of four friends who have far too many skeletons in their closets and a reputation for being strange, eccentric and sinfully wealthy.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, Zayn Malik/Liam Payne
Kudos: 2





	1. Prologue 1

_ To fall in love with all the exquisite things in the world is a terrible curse. _

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_ To see Beauty in the Horrific, and Art in Death is the very essence of Romance. _

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_ Romance is inescapable. _

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_ Art is the purpose of human life. _

_ - _


	2. Prologue 2

Liam has learned not to indulge in retrospection. There are few things in the world as cruel. 

Twelve years after everything came to pass, he still hasn't outgrown the need to down a couple restorils before going to bed; it's bordering an addiction, but it helps him get through the tougher nights. However, nothing lives longer than a good story; in the world, or in the mind. Against his best attempts, there are those moments; moments detached from reality, from consciousness and awareness, blue-gray moments where he can't help but look back. 

Some nights, scenes from another world flash across his mind's eye as he sleeps,. Sensations, nearly forgotten, resurface in the gloom of the night. Waterlilies in full bloom on a warm spring day. The alarmed screech of a mother starling. A face, pale and picturesque, coldly beautiful in it's stillness. The pervasive nature of the stench of burnt gunpowder. Turpentine. 

Somedays, he dreams of the portrait hung up over his fireplace mantle; the waifish young woman with dark hair and large, soulful eyes. He dreams of the skilled hands that rendered it into existence. 

It's a strange thing, the human mind. It's a strange thing, regret. 

_Regret_.

Six letters worth of space; probably less than an inch; and yet, this tiny, seemingly inconsequential jumble of letters is adept at unspooling every fold of the brain, and etching one word on the walls of every chamber of the heart; _why_. 

And the heart, unabating, relentless, keeps hammering away as its walls bleed a steady flow of red in the shape of one unforgiving word.

_Why_.


End file.
